


The Care and Feeding of a Terran Juvenile

by Snapjack



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (2014)
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Families of Choice, Fatherhood, Minific, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 18:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2160396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snapjack/pseuds/Snapjack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He picks the kid up no more’n a day or two off schedule, in the right quadrant, just where they said he would be. It’s definitely the right kid, no doubt—even if they had been harboring doubts, the kick he lands in Yondu’s crotch sure feels like his daddy’s style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Care and Feeding of a Terran Juvenile

**Author's Note:**

> One important piece of Yondu’s story, as he tells it here, is not actually Yondu’s story at all. The story about a bully and a mother’s reaction are from the life of a real person, Jerry Carter, who told the story to me more or less exactly as Yondu tells it to Peter here. Mr. Carter died recently; throughout his long and eventful life, he fought bullies.

He picks the kid up no more’n a day or two off schedule, in the right quadrant, just where they said he would be. It’s definitely the right kid, no doubt—even if they had been harboring doubts, the kick he lands in Yondu’s crotch sure feels like his daddy’s style. 

What Yondu’s not prepared for is the thought that strikes him after they’ve finally managed to knock the kid out, which is a tricky little bit of chemistry being as none’ve them’ve ever been near a Terran period, much less a half-Terran juvenile. But it only gives him a touch of seizure, and then he’s out cold and snoring, and it’s when Yondu’s climbing the stairs to the storage compartments with the kid in his arms, and every step hurts like a Mithrian dockpossum has latched isself onto his balls, that it occurs to him: this kid’s a little too good of a fighter to give to his daddy. 

So Yondu does what he never does (for a given value of “never” that means “mostly never”); he reneges on a package delivery cause he don’t wanna give up the package. The fellas are pretty understanding about it, or at least they are once Mr. Dart comes out to show them some reasons, and the kid only cries for about a solar week when he finds out he can’t go home for his mother’s “funeral”, whatever that is. On day nineteen, he comes and sits down cautiously across from Yondu at the breakfast table. (It’s also the lunch table, and the dinner table, and the dividin’ up the drugs table, and the dancin’ table when there are table dancers to be had, and the surgical table, and the level surface that Th’dun uses to periodically check the squareness of the crew cut surrounding his genitalia, which is apparently a crucial cultural point of pride among his people. Point is, the table is used for a fair number of fairly disturbin’ things, and it settles Yondu’s mind (not to mention his stomach) to refer to it as the breakfast table when he’s havin’ breakfast at it.) 

Anyway. So the kid comes and sits down at the breakfast table, and says not a goddamn word, just eyes Yondu warily. That’s good. Curiosity is good. Yondu swallows, stabs his fork into his breakfast, and leans forward, jabbing a finger in the kid’s face.  
“You know, when I’us little, maybe a little younger’n you, I got beat up real bad. I went home crying to my mama, said, mama, the bigger boy hit me. You know what she did?”  
The boy shakes his head.  
“Hit me’s what she did. Popped me so hard I couldn’t see outta my left eye’n turned me out. Said don’t come back till you find that kid and beat the shit out of him.”  
“What did you do?” the boy whispers.  
“Only one thing I could do. I went’n found that bully and I whipped his ass. He never bothered me again.”  
The boy absorbs that. Yondu stands, clears his plate. Breakfast’s over. 

Yondu finds, after a while, that he enjoys impartin’ knowledge, sort of. Most of the crew are fairly resistant to most of the common strains of learnin’ that you encounter, but the kid apparently isn’t up on his immunizations, cause he picks up languages something rapid and follows Yondu around all day asking him questions that make Yondu’s head hurt. Why is Yondu blue. (Why the fuck is the kid _pink_ , is what Yondu wantsa know.) How many planets are ther’n the galaxy. (Dumb question. Everyone knows there are three point one four seven pintillion. Schools like that, Yondu’s not surprised the Terrans haven’t made it off-system yet.) Could you breathe in space. (Don’t tempt Yondu.) 

He’s not picky about food, which is good cause Yondu doesn’t allow dietary preferences on board his ship, and he only gets near-dead once or twice due to a slight cultural misunderstanding concerning how much rhinovirus Terrans are supposed to consume daily as part of their nutritional intake (“none” is the correct answer, Yondu is surprised to learn—in most parts of the galaxy, sneezing on the food is considered an essential part of the seasoning process.) 

He’s also helpful in some unexpected ways; besides the tight-quarters repairs and pickpocketing that Yondu had him pegged for as soon as he saw them skinny little fingers, the kid turns out to be good at negotiation, because somehow he moves from the storage compartment to an actual bunk, and from observing the crews’ games of Thirty Scratch and Frisk and Tweezer to participatin’, and before Yondu knows it the kid is thirteen and taking cuts out of the Ravagers’ jobs. Not full cuts, but cuts. Yondu looks squinty at the kid the day he realizes it. “You ain’t a kid no more,” he tells him, slapping him on the back and sending him into a bulkhead.  
“Nice’v you to notice,” the kid says, straightening up and adjusting his hair. Smartass kid.  
“Come on, we’re going to go celebrate,” Yondu says. They go to a whorehouse in the Mhrvyn system, where Yondu pays for just enough to surprise the kid but not enough to scare him. He gets the kid a steak sandwich and a beer afterwards, notices that the kid hesitates, licks his lips before the beer, like there’s a taste there he doesn’t want to get rid of. Yondu turns away while he’s puttin’ his credits back, doesn’t let the kid see the faint trace of a smile. Yep. This one’s put together right. 

Sometimes, there are questions to avoid. Why there are quadrants of the galaxy they can’t go near. Why there are jobs where Peter has to stay on the ship, not get seen. Why in the hell Th’dun has to use the damn breakfast table instead of _literally any other surface on the ship._ Thankfully, for most of these questions the kid’s natural Terran ignorance works in their favor. Yondu can pretty much make up any answer he wants and the kid will accept it, long’s he stays consistent. So, in order: Outstandin’ warrants. Outstandin’ warrants. Outstandin’ warrants—well, actually, that last one doesn’t make much sense, and comena think of it, why _does_ Yondu put up with that shit where he eats? It’s unsanitary, and besides, it’s not like there aren’t other straight-line surfaces to be had. Peter’s right, and Yondu puts his foot down, and life goes on a little bit more pleasant and civilized-like for all of them. 

When Peter gets too a little too smartassed for Yondu’s taste, Yondu reminds him of his place by letting him go get hisself in trouble on any one of the hundred opportunities for trouble they run across yearly. As the years roll past, Yondu realizes he isn’t having to go pull Peter out of trouble anywhere near’s often; these days, the kid just shows back up, looking breathless and happy and with two or three new holes in his ship, usually talkin’ a million miles a minute about some new scam they’re running on Osvaldheim, and all it needs to get it started is two hunnert credits and a psychic who can do a French drop. These days, when Yondu gets so tired he falls asleep at the controls, it isn’t the ship’s autopilot jarrin’ him awake with that annoyin’ beeping sound, but Peter with a hand on his shoulder, long before any of the other crew notices he’s sleepin’. Yondu startles awake and the hand disappears; he hears Peter clunking back down the gangplank, saying, “Hey guys, who wants to lose some money to me in Scratch?”

Yondu stretches, scratches hisself, looks down at the console. There’s a plate there. Sandwich and a beer. 

Smartass kid.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was written as a companion piece to my amazing beta JentheSweetie's hysterical and touching work, ["The Care and Feeding of a Baby Groot"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2160489). We wrote the pieces originally as minifics to each other before deciding that they were too much fun not to post. Of course, JentheSweetie's "mini" fic turned out to be a full-blown extravaganza of joy and laughter, while mine stayed resolutely pint-sized. No matter. I am privileged, as always, to get a sneak peek behind the green curtain of her genius. Now go check her out!


End file.
